


The Name’s.....

by sasha_dragon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:16:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_dragon/pseuds/sasha_dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When walking past an alley, a very dangerous man becomes entangled in the Winchesters’ world. Dean’s rescuer might be more lethal than the creatures attacking him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Name’s.....

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Now look if I owned or had anything to do with Supernatural, do you think I’d be writing fan fiction? No, I’d be on set trying to limit the numbers of layers the boys were wearing. I’m sure Jensen only really needs clothes when the weather is really cold. So please, I make nothing but myself and hopefully other fan girls happy.   
> Warnings: If you know who Benny is then you are golden, other than that just the usual Dean whump! Oh, there maybe a few spoilers for the last James Bond film.  
> Notes: Before anything else first of all I must do my usual grovelling to my wondrous beta bigj52. Yes, please feel free to compose sonnets in her honour for putting up with me, and my poor scribbles. Now onto the rest of my babbling. This story came about after watching a little movie called Skyfall, and a scene where I swear Benny and a certain OO look fairly alike. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it, that and the chance to beat the crap out of poor Dean again. Please enjoy, and feedback is like chocolate, one is never enough (yes, I am shamelessly begging).

  
  
  
  
He walked steadily through the night, casually raising a hand to scratch absently at his beard.  It had been a while since he’d worn a beard; he preferred to be clean shaven.  But as disguises went, it was relatively quick and practical. He lifted his hand higher and tugged at the peak of the cap he wore, settling it slightly lower, its peak shading his ice-blue eyes. He returned his hand to the pocket of the navy-blue wool coat he was wearing.  This wasn’t the elegant and tailored look he normally favoured. This coat was fairly shapeless and anonymous; it wasn’t being worn for style but function.  
  
As he walked he presented the very picture of a nondescript, ordinary man, either on his way home from work, or heading out for the evening.  Tonight’s little stroll had nothing to do with pleasure, and everything to do with business.  He’d been hunting his target for over a month, and now he’d finally tracked him to Chicago.  He shivered slightly as the biting February wind made him glad of his hat and coat.  
  
He continued through a part of town that was less than friendly, but he was unconcerned. Any mugger foolish enough to think he was an easy target would be in for a very nasty shock. It was what he liked about America, so much casual violence.  Who really noticed another body with either a bullet in it, or a broken neck?  In parts of town like this, it was usually attributed to gang warfare.  Back home, bodies with bullets in them still made the nine o’clock news, along with much hand wringing. In his line of work there was a lot to be said for gun cultures, turf wars, and civil strife.  
  
His musings were disturbed by the sound of a scuffle, actually it sound more like a small battle was being waged in the alley just ahead of him.  He shrugged his shoulders and settled the coat around him, his hand curling casually around the grip of his gun.  This wasn’t his concern; this was someone else’s fight.  He had his own act of violence to commit tonight in the name of Queen and Country.  
  
As he drew level with the mouth of the alley he glanced down it, it never hurt to be cautious.  One never knew when you might be dragged into something accidentally.  Judging by what he saw, he had no fears of being targeted as a witness. These men seemed to be unbothered by the fact they were bathed in the neon glow of a security light. It cast the scene into stark relief.  
  
He saw a man being attacked by three others; he was being thrown against something.  The sound of a body hitting metal rang out like a bell. In the bright light he saw a fourth man, lying motionless on the floor. He allowed a slight smile to grace his lips. At least the man with his back against the skip.... sorry, dumpster was getting a few blows of his own in. He went to move on, this wasn’t his concern. Then a flash of light on metal caught his trained eye. He knew a knife had been drawn, putting the man under attack at an even greater disadvantage.  
  
Filled with idle curiosity, he melted into the shadows to watch what happened next. He wondered how the outnumbered man would fair against an armed assailant.  
  
“Come on, Winchester. Just tell us where Sammy boy is. Mr Crowley wasn’t real happy when he went and killed one of his pets. Look, I promise to gut you real quick; I’ll even leave your pretty face alone, so little brother can identify your body.”  The knife-wielding attacker sneered at the man cowering against the dumpster.  
  
“That’s Sammy for you. He’s a regular dog whisperer. Hate to disappoint you though.  I’m here on my own. You don’t get better pizza anyplace than the Windy City. I got that on very good authority. You met Death? Great guy, knows his food. Now why don’t you girls run back to Crowley, and tell them you fucked up, and missed my little brother? I’m sure you’ll enjoy the taste of your girlfriend’s spleen when Crowley feeds it to ya,” Dean winked, and blew a kiss at one of the other goons.  
  
So this was some form of turf war. The men surrounding Dean looked like extras from The Sopranos.  The leader with the knife wore a black leather jacket. There was a large ring on his little finger that glinted in the light as he waved the knife in front of Dean’s face.  He wasn’t interested in a bunch of petty criminals sorting out their differences.  
  
 He was about to go on his way, when he heard Winchester speak. As Winchester spoke he straightened, his left arm wrapped round obviously injured ribs.  His right eye was swollen shut, and blood dripped from split lips.  
  
The insult made him pause, then Winchester turned his head to the man on right, and by the way he tilted his head he must’ve winked and blown a kiss at ‘the girlfriend’. From his place in the shadows he laughed softly at the bravado of the statement.  He barely gave the comment about Death a thought. It was most likely some drug dealer’s puffed-up alias.   
  
From his vantage point he saw the recipient of the wink; he was tall and impressively built.  The man’s brown regulation leather jacket was stretched tightly across his shoulders. He stiffened and then darted forward.   He shook his head at the man’s amateur move. Dean Winchester’s goading had had the desired effect, but with the assailant’s height and build, it would almost certainly mean this would be a short-lived battle.  
  
Then Winchester’s stance changed. His centre of gravity shifted and the arm that he’d wrapped around himself shot out. Winchester grabbed the enraged man by the jacket, pulling him forward, throwing him off balance.  Winchester rammed his knee viciously into his attacker’s gut, sending him to the floor.  
  
Winchester surged forward taking the fight to the other men.  His elbow snapped upwards, catching the man who’d asked about Sammy under the chin. The man’s head flew back and the watcher flinched slightly. He was sure he heard something snap but the man just laughed and reeled backwards.  
  
“That all you got, Deano? How ‘bout we call up another puppy?  See if you can dog whisper this one?”  
  
Winchester snarled then followed up with a savage punch to the man’s throat. The laughter stopped and he gurgled grotesquely. Winchester spun round gracefully and tackled the last man who came forward, swinging wildly at him. Winchester took hold of his jacket and used their momentum to turn them. Then he rammed the man face first into the dumpster, repeatedly hitting his head against the metal.  
  
From his place in the shadows he was impressed; he was watching a skilled fighter at work. Possibly military, he’d definitely had some training. His fighting skills were raw and learned the hard way where it was kill or be killed; he understood this dance only too well.  There was something in the way Winchester...no, Dean, fought.  It was desperate, fierce, the warrior caught in the grip of blood lust.  He knew how easy it was to become lost in the red haze of battle but Dean was focused as he fought off his attackers. He let go of the man he was bashing senseless, not waiting to see him to slump to the ground.  
  
Dean turned for the mouth of the alley and under the circumstances, he did the only thing he could, he tried to run.  Unfortunately for him the fourth man, who’d started the fight on the floor, chose that moment to stand up, and landed a vicious blow to Dean’s kidneys. Dean staggered under the attack. Then he righted himself and turned back, unleashing a flurry of blows, managing to drive his attacker back.  
  
This time Dean’s luck had deserted him when the man in the black leather jacket loomed out of the shadows.  Dean saw the knife coming for him, and twisted to one side but he wasn’t quick enough. They were close enough to him now for him to be able to hear the soft grunt from Dean as the knife found its target.   
  
 Suddenly a knife slid into Dean’s right hand; it must’ve been hidden in his sleeve.  Returning the favour he drove the knife through the black leather into the man’s chest and pushed upwards viciously.  
  
For a second the watcher was stunned as the man stabbed Dean; he was certain his eyes had turned jet black.  Then as Dean’s knife struck home, an unearthly orange glow lit up his face and body. He shook his head; it must’ve been a trick of the light. Then his attention was drawn back to Dean as he turned to face the rest of his attackers.  
  
“Come on, boys. Ready for Round Two?”  Dean was panting harshly, and he favoured his left side, limping backwards, getting ever closer to the man watching from the shadows.  
  
The tallest of the remaining trio looked round at his friends. “Come on, we ain’t afraid of that pig sticker, are we? There’s still three of us and one of him.  We rush him, and we can take him. Crowley just wants his brother. Get him to the boss and he can get where Sammy is out of him. He’ll soon start talking after he loses a few fingers and some skin.”   
  
By now they were almost level with him; the threat of torture didn’t seem to deter Dean. He saw the determination in Dean’s eyes, and the set of his jaw.  He could tell the man was ready to die to protect his brother.  Dean’s sense of duty called to him. He was fighting for someone he believed in, someone he was willing to die to protect.  It was a sentiment he understood although he had no family. They had long since died but he’d recently lost the woman who’d come to embody both commanding officer and mother, and he appreciated the raw desperation in Dean’s fight to protect his sibling.   
  
“Come on, you sons of bitches, I ain’t got all night. My pizza’s getting cold.”  Dean gave them a bloody grin, and he crouched ready, the knife held low.  
  
As the three charged, Dean saw a movement out of the corner of his eye, and a dark figure in the mouth of the alley appeared. He barely had time to register the man’s presence when the demons were on him. He focused on the first ugly motherfucker to reach him, the knife arched upwards and slit his throat cleanly. The orange flare had barely died before he turned his attention to the largest of the three.  
  
The demon used his greater reach to his advantage; he grabbed Dean by the throat, lifting him off his feet.  Enjoying the pained gasp the move elicited, his joy was short lived when the man who’d suddenly appeared beside Winchester, grabbed his wrist and twisted sharply.  He felt bones break, but there was no pain. He just squeezed harder, watching as Dean’s eyes rolled back until only the whites showed and his lips turned blue.  
  
He was shaken. What the hell? They had to be on drugs. No man should be able to carry on strangling someone after their wrist had been broken.  Without a second thought his gun was in his hand, and he pulled the trigger.  He saw blood blossom dead centre in the man’s chest, and he fell away.  
  
Dean fell to the floor gasping for air, but he ignored the wounded man. Instead he chose to concentrate on the last man standing. He slipped the gun back into his pocket; one shot might be ignored, but two in rapid succession?  He didn’t want to chance his luck turning worse than it already had.  He should’ve followed his first instinct and walked away, but his curiosity had dragged him into this fight. He couldn’t afford to leave witnesses to his presence in this city.   
  
At least that’s what the pragmatic part of his brain told himself. But there was something about Dean he couldn’t help but like. He reminded him of a younger version of himself, full of fire and defiance. Heavily outnumbered, Dean refused to back down.  Ready to kill to protect his family, with no thought for his own well being. Duty, first, last and foremost.  
  
The last attacker grinned at him. “Aww dude, you really shouldn’t have dropped the gun, ‘cause now I’m gonna rip ya fuckin’ head off.”  The man ran towards him, a malicious grin on his face. Once again for a split second, he saw the man’s eyes turn black. The optical illusion didn’t deter him from his course. His right hand shot out, striking the man right between the eyes.  
  
His victim’s hands flew to his watering eyes, momentum carrying him onwards. As the demon staggered past he stepped behind him, arm snaking around the blinded man’s neck. With precise force and a savage twist, his neck was broken.  He dropped the man to the floor, and moved quickly to where Dean lay.  
  
He stood looking down at Dean; he could tell Dean was having trouble focusing on his features. He was relieved as he didn’t want this man’s blood on his hands.  
  
Dean tilted his head, and squinted up at him, his lips struggling to form a word.  Finally he managed, “Benny?  Dude, what are.....shit! Look out!”  
  
He barely had time to register what Dean had said when something hit him from behind, hurling him into the wall.  He drove his elbow back, a grim smile on his face when he found his target.  Centre mass, the solar plexus. There was a grunt and the weight on his back lessened.  He stamped back hard, finding his assailant’s instep and driving him further back, allowing him precious seconds to turn to face the new threat.  
  
Except this wasn’t a new threat, it was the man he’d shot. Shit, he must’ve been wearing a vest but he was certain he’d seen blood on the light-coloured jacket. He focused on the jacket now, and he saw it was now soaked with blood. Damn, definitely drugs. What would he have to do to put this man down?  
  
Before his hand reached his pocket, an arm appeared around his attacker’s throat and he was yanked backwards. The man jerked when Dean stabbed him twice in the back.  This time he clearly saw the orange flare, and was shaken by it.  
  
Dean staggered back from the dead demon, raising a shaking hand to wipe the blood out of his eyes.  There was a fresh cut along his hairline and it stung like a bitch.  He grinned at his friend. “Just like old times, right, Benny?  You know we always got each other’s back.”   
  
‘Benny’ as he’d now become nodded to Dean; he had no intention of correcting the confused man.  Even in this poor light he recognised the signs of concussion, uneven pupils and the way Dean swayed.  Once this was over he would slip away, leaving Dean convinced he’d been saved by his friend.  
  
Dean reached for him. “Come on, Benny, we can’t afford to hang around here.  You don’t know what other fugly bastards are nearby.”  Dean took another step towards his friend, only to see him recoil. “Jesus, dude, when did you get squeamish? What is it? The blood?”  He swiped at his face with his sleeve.  “Sorry, I forgot. Is that a little better?  Look, deep breaths and we’ll stop off at the bank so you can make a withdrawal.”  
  
Before Benny could answer him, a voice growled down his ear. “Fuck, you’re as pretty as a picture, Winchester. I’m sure your girlfriend over there thinks you’re gorgeous.” Then Dean was being dragged backwards by the throat. The last demon had gotten to its feet once more, and was now trying to rip his right arm off.  The demon looked over at the man watching them and grinned. “Wait your turn, dude. Remember, I promised to rip your fuckin’ head off.”  
  
Ice-blue eyes widened in shock. That was impossible! He’d broken the bastard’s neck; there’d been no mistaking the feel of a hyoid bone breaking. How the hell was that possible?  He was stunned by this sudden turn of events.  Then he gathered his wits. This was no time to have an attack of the vapours as his maiden aunt used to call them.  Whatever the hell that thing was, it was doing its damnedest to tear Dean apart in its attempt to get him to drop his knife.  
  
Dean’s eyes flicked up to meet his, unable to speak due to the pressure on his windpipe. Then Dean glanced down to his right hand; he knew what Dean was going to do. He inclined his head slightly, ready to move.  
  
Dean grinned. His vision was swimming as the bastard behind him was doing his best to tear his throat out.  If he was going to move it had to be now before he passed out. He relaxed. Benny had got the message.  With the last of his strength, Dean slammed his head back; he heard a satisfying crunch and yell. With a flick of his wrist the knife went through the air landing at Benny’s feet. Benny shot forward and grabbed the knife before the black-eyed bastard could react. Benny dodged round him, and he heard the sound of a knife being driven into flesh.  
  
The grip on him loosened and he tore himself free of the dying demon’s grip.  His knees buckled as he drew in a ragged breath, his arm aching as the blood rushed back into his wrist. Shit, that was going to leave a mark, but at least he could feel his fingers again. Before he hit the floor, an arm wrapped around his waist, stopping him face planting onto the filthy concrete.  
  
Dean looked up and managed a lop-sided grin at his saviour. “Man, we still got it even after all this time apart. Just like being back in Purgatory, yeah, Benny? Come on, lay off the goods though. I wouldn’t let you cuddle me back there, and I ain’t gonna start here.” Dean took hold of what he thought was his friend’s arm, steadied himself, biting back the moan of pain that threatened to escape him.  
  
Dean held out his hand for the knife. “Come on, Benny, we gotta get the hell out of Dodge.  All we had to worry about before was some other fugly bastard, comin’ along and trying to gut us.  Top side we’ve got five-o, and trust me none of ‘em are as hot as Kono.” He smiled when Benny handed him the knife and slipped it inside his jacket again.     
  
Dean nodded to Benny and led the way forward, his gait unsteady but he managed to keep up a respectable pace. Not too fast as to attract attention, but fast enough to put distance between them and the sounds of approaching sirens.    
  
His companion cursed softly under his breath; by sheer bad luck Dean had picked the direction he’d been heading. The two men walked in silence; he glanced at Dean as they walked.  He was aware of the other man’s injuries, and how they must be taking their toll on him.  He was still impressed with how the younger man handled himself, his proficiency in the fight and now how he dealt with possible pursuit.   
  
 He decided to walk with Dean a little longer, hoping he’d turn for home soon. He knew Dean’s confusion would clear and he’d realize the man beside him wasn’t his brother-in–arms, Benny. He considered what Dean had said in the alley when he’d mentioned Purgatory.  It must’ve been a nickname for some military base, most likely in Afghanistan, which possibly made Dean some form of military, maybe even a private contractor.  Afghanistan - a place he’d visited a couple of times, he appreciated the bleak humour of the nickname. He’d always thought Helmand, Provenance was very aptly named, with its harsh and dusty landscape, and the constant threat of danger at every turn.  
  
 He turned his thoughts back to the man beside him; he’d seen the kind of bond Dean and Benny shared before where all there was to trust was the man fighting beside you, knowing he’d protect your back and that you had his.  He felt a pang of regret; it was a bond he didn’t have the luxury of having. The war he fought was fought in the shadows and usually alone.  
  
  Each ally could just as easily become a foe, and every kill he made could be his last.  Not only because his target might kill him but there was a risk of him being captured or worse still, caught on camera, working.   He’d be disavowed and abandoned by the very country he served.  He gave a bitter smile. When or if he managed to retire, there would be no pomp-filled ceremony.  Just a few hushed words in an oak panelled office, a paltry pension and endless days of boredom.  
  
He dismissed the thoughts. This was not the time for maudlin reflection, he was on his way to ‘do battle’ tonight.  Tonight’s foe was a bomb maker for hire; he followed no ideology except for the love of money, his skills going to the highest bidder. The bomb maker’s singular talents had led him to appear on his employer’s radar.  Now the time had come to quietly remove him from the battlefield.  
  
He was disturbed when Dean stumbled slightly, and hissed between tightly clenched teeth.  Without thought he reached out to steady the wounded man. Dean lifted his head and nodded his thanks. “Shit, I must be getting soft. Back in Purgatory I wouldn’t have needed you to come an’ save my ass from those black-eyed sons-of-bitches. But it’s good to know you still got my back, man.”  Dean patted him on the shoulder in gratitude.  
  
He studied Dean even closer now, and considered the younger man’s words. He would’ve taken those four killers out by himself before? Dear God. How much combat had he seen? The more he’d thought about the men attacking Dean, the more convinced he was they’d been high on some sort of drug.  It was the only thing that explained the black eyes, and how they carried on after obviously fatal injuries. He refused to dwell on the glow he’d seen when Dean had stabbed them with the strangely marked knife he carried.   
  
Once again Dean stumbled, but this time he was no longer able to remain on his feet.  With reflexes honed by years of training and killing, he reached out and grabbed Dean’s arm to steady him.  Dean gasped in pain, and his eyes rolled back as he went completely limp.   
  
 The man cursed softly under his breath as he pulled Dean closer to his body to help keep him upright. He looked round; they had made it to a slightly better residential area.  Townhouses and apartments, many of them with stone steps leading to their doors.   
  
Adjusting his hold on Dean, he managed to half-carry, half-drag him towards one such set of stone steps. He lowered Dean onto them, and leant him against the stone balustrade. He straightened up, and got ready to walk away, once more lifting his hand to pull the peak of his cap lower.  It was then he noticed the blood on it.  
  
He froze. Blood on his hands was nothing unusual. After all, tonight he was going to get more blood on them. But seeing Dean’s blood on them bothered him a little.  He had seen too much death. So many people he’d known had died, some he loved, most he barely tolerated.  He knew that somewhere out in the city was a brother, a brother who would be worried.  
  
He shook himself. It wasn’t any of his concern, he had intervened more than he should have. He had to get a move on, or he would lose his window of opportunity with his target. He took a step and then Dean moaned, and began to speak softly.  
  
“Benny, ‘m sorry for cutting ya loose, but Sam needed me, ya know.  You need to get out of here before Sam comes looking for me. I don’t want to see you two get into it again.  You just stay clean. Promise me, man. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better friend. You’ll be better off without me.” Dean moaned again and coughed weakly.  
  
The man swore, and crouched in front of Dean. He used the street light to aid in his examination of the wounded man.  He knew what he was looking for - the knife wound.   He quickly pulled open Dean’s jacket, pulled up his overshirt and T-shirt and there it was.  A ragged hole just above Dean’s left hip, oozing blood rapidly.  His hand went to his pocket, and he quickly pulled out a small black metal case.  To the casual observer, it resembled a cigarette case but it was actually a small and highly useful first-aid kit.  
  
As he flicked open the case he pulled Dean’s T-shirt up higher, and Dean began to bat weakly at his hand. “Benny, ‘m fine. It’s just a scratch. Lay off the merchandise, man. I ain’t been poisoned or bit by another damn Kitsune. Come on, get me up. We gotta get moving.”  Dean gritted his teeth and tried to get to his feet.  
  
‘Benny’ just curled a strong hand round Dean’s bicep, ignoring what he was rambling about. With hardly any effort he kept Dean in place, his weak struggles stopped and he slumped sideways.  Surely Dean would stay still. He pulled out what looked like a pack of antiseptic wipes, tore open the pack, and pulled out a wipe.  The cloth was impregnated with a powerful antiseptic and antibiotic agent.  He cleaned the wound thoroughly; Dean barely made a sound except for softly humming a song he did not recognize.  
  
He balled up the blood-covered wipe and discarded it, unconcerned about DNA being lifted from it.  There was a crafty little enzyme on the material, that according to what his bookish.... sorry, nowadays that would probably be tabletish... young Quartermaster had told him, the enzyme would destroy all blood evidence, if the police were to find the discarded wipes.  It was a very handy little item to have around, as were the rest of the pack’s contents.    
  
He pulled out a second pack which contained a self-adhesive wound dressing; he smiled as he tore open the packaging. Like most of what he carried, this was so much more than just a band-aid. With a deft movement, the dressing was applied to the knife wound.  He lowered Dean’s shirts, and got ready to stand, he had done much more than he intended to.  If the young man who gave him the first-aid kit ever found out what he’d just done, there would be much eye rolling, and tut tutting about an outdated sense of chivalry.  Something he could not normally be accused of, but it felt good to help a fellow fighter once in a while, even if Dean’s moral code was like his own. More shades of grey than black and white.  
  
Now it really was time for him to go. The kit was slipped back into his jacket as he glanced up and down the street. He saw no sign of police pursuit, and the bitterly cold weather was keeping the street quiet.  As he turned away from Dean and made to go on his way, the quiet was disturbed by a phone ringing.  It was an exceptionally loud ring tone, filled with wailing guitars; he spun back and rapidly searched Dean’s pockets. The last thing he needed was the phone to bring unwanted attention, be it from either the police or bystanders. He had to silence the phone quickly.  
  
He found the offending article in Dean’s inside pocket; he was about to cancel the call when he looked at the caller ID.  It said ‘Sammy’ along with a picture of a man who appeared to be asleep with his head resting on his arm. His long hair was in disarray, his mouth open and a small pool of drool forming on the sleeve of his shirt.  He laughed at the picture. Even if he hadn’t heard Sammy was Dean’s brother, this picture proved it.  Only someone you were close to or a sibling would take a picture like this.  
  
His finger hovered for a second, and then he pressed the screen. “Dean!  Where the hell are you, man?  You were supposed to be back here half an hour ago.”  An irate voice yelled down the phone.  
  
“Hello, is that Sam?” The man on the other end of the phone fell silent, but not for long.  
  
“Who the hell are you? Where is my brother? I swear if you’ve hurt him I’ll rip your fucking heart out.”  
  
He smiled at the threatening tone. “Please, Sammy, relax. I’m afraid your brother’s had a little accident. I’m taking care of him.”  
  
“For a start it’s Sam. Whatever it is you want, you black-eyed bastard, I swear if you’ve touched him, all you’ll get from me is a holy water enema, applied with a high-pressure hose.  Now let me speak to my brother, you son-of-a-bitch.”  Sam responded sharply to the authoritative English accent, his voice low and lethal.  
  
He couldn’t help but smile. Sam’s voice was ice cold, his tone more than promised to live up to the somewhat colourful threat he’d just made.  He realized quickly the man on the other end of the phone wasn’t going to believe any protestations of innocence from him.  Instead, he decided to take the unorthodox stance of telling the truth. “Alright Sam, you need to get here quickly.  I don’t know what you and your brother, Dean, are involved in, but when I came across him, four large and extremely brawny gentlemen, who said they were representing someone called Crowley, were using him as a punching bag.”  
  
“Oh shit! Is Dean alright? Is he badly hurt?  Where are you?”  Sam’s words tumbled out of his mouth, panic clear in his questions.  
  
He heard movement; it sounded as if Sam had taken off at a run.  Then he heard the sound of a door slamming, and then a powerful engine revving. He was impressed with Sam’s speed. He listened carefully, the vehicle he was in had pulled away.  It appeared Sam was coming for his brother.  
  
“I said, is Dean alright?  I want to talk to him right now.” Sam gripped the steering wheel of the Impala tightly; he was wound tight and ready to tear Chicago apart brick by brick if he had to.  He’d lost Dean one too many times, and he wasn’t prepared to lose him to some random demon attack. Not now they were getting close to the light at the end of the tunnel he’d promised his brother he wouldn’t let him down again. Nothing, not even the after-effects of the Trial would stop him finding Dean.  
  
“Alright Sam, we’re at the corner of Abbott street. He’s not badly hurt, but he took several hefty blows to the head. If it helps you gauge Dean’s condition, he seems to think I’m someone called Benny?”  The man heard a sound and saw Dean was stirring, his eyes flicking back and forth beneath the lids. Dean gave a soft groan. “As a matter of interest, what would happen if your brother was to suddenly realize I’m not his brother-in-arms?”    
  
Sam felt the air whoosh out of his lungs when he heard that Dean was relatively ‘fine’.  But he was worried when Dean’s rescuer had been mistaken for Benny. Shit, he’d have to get Dean to a hospital if he’d had his bell rung that hard. “If he does come to and realizes you’re not Benny, just hand the damn phone to him quick and back up.  He’ll come up swinging,” Sam said as he drove to Dean’s location, trying not to exceed the speed limit by enough to catch a cop’s attention.  
  
“I thought that might be the case. It looks like he’s thinking about waking up. This could be interesting.”  The man could see the pain on Dean’s face as he struggled towards consciousness, another slight moan escaped when he moved and his injuries pulled. He realized after what he saw in the alley, a disorientated Dean would be quite the handful.  He had taken a liking to the younger man, and didn’t want to have to add to his injury tally but he couldn’t afford to let himself be hurt by a wild swing.  
  
There was a silence, and just as Sam was ready to hang up, the man spoke again. “Which branch of the armed forces did Dean serve in?”  
  
“What makes you think Dean was in the forces?”  
  
“The way your brother fights and moves, he’s obviously had training.  I’d hazard a guess at Marine training.”  He heard a soft intake of breath as he continued. “When I went in to help him, he said something about being based in Purgatory and all the combat he and his friend, Benny faced.  Purgatory sounds like the kind of nickname Marines give the places they serve. Afghanistan can be a very harsh place. Was I wrong in my assumption? If so I’m sorry.”  
  
Sam took a deep breath. Whoever this stranger was, he had an insight into his brother. He’d seen Dean fight and seen their father’s training. It had also led him to believe Benny had served alongside Dean in some hellish military base.   In many ways the man had been right. When Dean had been in Purgatory, Benny had been there to watch his back and fight beside him to become his brother-in-arms, and that was the crux of the matter. He felt guilty.  
  
 Guilty that he had not looked for Dean, even though he felt his own world had ended when Dean had vanished, presumed dead. Guilty that he had not been there to have Dean’s back.  Even though he knew Dean would not have wanted him to be trapped in Hell Light, as his big brother had called Purgatory.  
  
It was why he couldn’t deal with Benny; he given other monsters the benefit of the doubt and seen their humanity. But with Benny what he saw reflected back was his failure to take care of Dean.  That was why Dean had turned his back on the friend who had helped him through Purgatory. Again he’d put Sam first, above anyone else. Sam always came first for his brother.    
  
“No, you were right. Dean and Benny served together.  It got pretty rough from what Dean told me.” Sam managed to keep his voice light, but it shook slightly with strain.  
  
“I take it Benny has been a bone of contention between the two of you?”  
  
Sam managed a bitter laugh. “Are you sure you and my brother weren’t sitting chatting?”  
  
“No, it was something Dean said about withdrawal and Benny needing to stay clean. Some veterans don’t adjust back to civilian life too well. You feel Benny is leading your brother astray? After all, the gentlemen tonight weren’t the best kind of company.”  
  
“Dean tends to find trouble all on his own without being led astray. Just make sure if he wakes up he doesn’t wander off.”  Sam said softly.  
  
He looked down at Dean once more, and with the restless way his eyes moved beneath the lids, he knew Dean would soon be awake. He just hoped his brother would be with them soon. “How long before you join us, Sam?”  
  
“I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” Sam hung up.  
  
He sat by Dean watching over him, wondering why he stayed. A man in his line of work couldn’t afford to get sentimental about strangers.  Not too long ago he’d been ready to snap Dean’s neck if he stopped calling him Benny.  Now he was playing nursemaid and waiting for the man’s younger brother. It went against all his training but he dealt in shades of grey; black and white were for the politicians, and the great and good. Men like him and Dean lived in the shadows, and sometimes doing good and other times losing their way.  Perhaps like Dean had with his friend, Benny. How else would he have fallen in with a man like Crowley?  
  
 Then heard the deep roar of an engine; if he wasn’t mistaken it sounded like a classic muscle car - all growling power and masculinity. He wasn’t disappointed when a Black Impala swung round the corner.  By the looks of the car, it was a 1967 model.  
  
  He nodded in appreciation of the car; it was very well maintained.  It lacked the sleek sophistication and curves of his much lamented Aston Martin DB5.  But he’d always liked the naked aggression of the muscle car.  It was more of a statement of intent than a vehicle.     
  
He knew right away this gleaming piece of Detroit metal was Dean’s pride and joy. Especially when Sam screeched to a halt and the pain on Dean’s face deepened at the sound of tyres being tortured. He waited patiently for Sam to emerge from the car.  
  
The door swung open and a long denim-clad leg emerged, followed by the rest of the little brother Dean had taken such a beating to protect.  He thanked his years of poker playing for allowing his face to remain impassive.  This was Dean’s little brother?  The man was huge, well muscled and very likely as dangerous as his brother.  Not only that, he was armed. He’d spotted the familiar bulge of a hand gun tucked into the waistband of Sam’s jeans, noting as Sam carefully adjusted his jacket to cover it.  
  
He decided to play it casual, not moving away from Dean, making sure he didn’t topple over and fall down the steps.  
  
By now Sam was stood right in front of them, the assessing look he shot Dean’s rescuer would’ve have made most men break out into a cold sweat.    
  
He calmly returned the assessing stare. He was fairly certain that if he had to, he could disable or kill Sam but it would come at a great cost. A long protracted fight, and possibly serious injury; no, he needed this to be as quick and civilized as possible.  He kept his blue eyes fixed on Sam, and then Sam suddenly seemed to have gotten bored with him.  His eyes left him, and moved to his brother.  
  
A change came over Sam; all the tension seemed to leave his body when he saw his brother. The wary anger was gone, and Sam’s slanted eyes filled with concern, tinged with brotherly frustration.  
  
Suddenly Sam moved forward, and he tensed, ready for a fight.  Instead Sam crouched down in front of Dean, reaching out and gently wrapping his large hand round his brother’s wrist. “Hey Dean, you were only supposed to be getting us some pizza.  Can’t you manage to stay out of trouble for five minutes?”  
  
He looked back at Dean, and the green eyes that had previously been closed were now half open. Dean seemed to be aware of what was going on around him.  Dean managed a half smile, as he struggled to focus on his brother; his tongue darted out and licked his bloody lips.  “Quit holding my hand, Sammy. You know me. I love makin’ new friends.”  
  
 Sam grinned, shook his head and began to run his hands over Dean’s battered body. Dean sighed and relaxed when he felt the familiar ritual of Sam checking him over. As he worked, Sam marked each place that made Dean flinch. Sam looked into Dean’s eyes, and saw the unequal pupils. “How’s the headache, man?” He asked sympathetically.  
  
 He prepared to move away; as far as the two brothers were concerned he was no longer needed. Then Sam pulled Dean’s shirts up, as he continued his examination of his sibling. He noted the calm detached way Sam checked for broken bones. It spoke volumes about the Winchesters’ lives, that they seemed more comfortable with checking for injuries than comforting touches.   
  
 Then again he hated being coddled, so maybe it was something else he and Dean had in common. He’d lost count of the many beautiful women he’d sort comfort from. Some of them had even survived his embrace. Damn, there it was again - that maudlin streak.  It was nothing a few vodka martinis and killing the bomb maker wouldn’t cure.  
  
“What’s this?  What have you put on Dean’s hip?”  Sam was staring at the dressing he’d applied; he went to lift it and look at the wound beneath.   
  
The man reached out and rested his hand on top of Sam’s to stop him.  
  
“Buddy, I don’t know who you are but if you don’t quit pawin’ my brother, you’re gonna lose some fingers.”  Dean growled weakly, glaring threateningly through bruised eyes.  
  
“Dean, don’t be like that. After everything we’ve meant to one another? You’ve been calling me Benny, remember?”  He smiled lightly as Dean looked startled by the revelation, then he addressed Sam. “Dean had a little accident with a knife. Trust me, the dressing is best left alone.  According to the young man who gave it me, it will clot the wound within five minutes.  You take it off after twenty-four hours, and you won’t need stitches.  But of course if you think there is internal bleeding, I’m sure you gentlemen know what to do.”  
  
The brothers glanced at one another again, and he was certain there was a whole silent conversation going on between them.  Finally Sam nodded. “Thanks for that. We could do with a truckload of these things.  As my brother says, he just loves to meet new people and make new friends. Some of them don’t even want to kill him.  Where do you get these from?”  
  
“My employer. Universal Export has a pharmaceutical research and development division. Dean is trying one of the new prototypes; I’m here to demonstrate them to some of the big drug companies.  In case you’re worried, they’re quite safe. I promise they’ve had extensive testing.” He should know. One had prevented his bleeding to death after an unfortunate misunderstanding.  How was he to know the woman’s husband collected antique weapons?  He grinned at Sam who smiled in return, his whole face lighting up.  The smile made him look lighter, younger, and now he understood Dean’s desire to protect Sam.  
  
“I hate to seem ungrateful, but I think I should get Dean to the hospital.”  Sam stood up and the man followed suit.  Sam had casually manoeuvred himself between him and Dean, subtly protecting his fallen brother. It seemed the younger Winchester was just as protective as the elder one.  
  
“Do you need a hand getting Dean to the car?”  He asked, looking up at Sam.  
  
“No, I should be alright. Although if you don’t mind, can you open the car door for me please?”  Sam gave a smile, and turned his attention back to his brother. It was just in time too, as Dean was attempting to stand, fairly unsuccessfully as it happened.  His legs didn’t seem to be able to take his weight, and his knees buckled.  
  
“Damnit, Dean. Couldn’t you hang on for just a second?  You’ve just had your ass handed to you and you look like shit. Now let me help you.”  Sam grabbed Dean’s arms to stop him falling.  He wrapped his arm round Dean’s waist, and for a split second it looked like he was going to pick him up.  But the glare Dean gave him made Sam adjust his hold, allowing Dean to lean his weight on him.  
  
“Who me? Have my ass handed to me?  Naw. I’d got ‘em where I wanted ‘em, and I never look like shit. I’m ruggedly handsome. You still can’t cope with the fact I got the looks and the charm in the family.”  
  
“That’s right, Dean. All I was left with was the common sense and the brains.  It’s tough but I’ll try and live with it.”  Sam rolled his eyes, and continued to help Dean walk slowly to the Impala.  
  
As the two brothers walked round the car, Dean patted the bonnet affectionately.  Their silent watcher knew he’d been right about the owner of the vehicle.  He followed, watching Dean’s slow and determined progress; it spoke of a man used to dealing with injury. Not always having the luxury of hospital care, he was certain of one thing.  Once the Winchesters had left him, the first thing they would do was not go to the hospital.  They would clear out of wherever they were staying and head out of Chicago, because it was exactly what he would do.  
  
He overtook the shuffling men and opened the car door, smiling as they came level. “Your chariot awaits, sir.” He raised his fingers to the peak of his cap.  
  
Dean lifted his head and looked blearily at him, managing a smile. “Why, thank you, James. That will be all for tonight.”  
  
He smiled at the name Dean used. “What? So I’m not Benny anymore? Shame. I rather enjoyed our little adventure. I hope you catch up with your brother-in-arms again one day,” he responded and noticed Sam tense as Dean hunched further into himself.  
  
“Yeah. Sorry about that, dude, but you’re a ringer in that hat and beard, except he’s better lookin’.  And what with me getting so viciously attacked without reason, I got a little muddled.”  There was the ghost of a cocky smile on Dean’s battered face.  
  
“Perfectly understandable. It was an honour to have been mistaken for a member of the armed forces.  Take care, Dean, and try not to wander down another dark alley for a couple of days.”  
  
Dean looked puzzled by the man’s words as he slowly lowered himself into the car. Sam knelt beside him, trying to make him comfortable.  Dean didn’t take to kindly to Sam’s fussing, and he weakly flapped his hand at Sam. Then Dean slid down the seat and closed his eyes.  Sam shut the door gently, and he looked over to Dean’s rescuer.  
  
For a few seconds there was silence. Neither man moving, keeping eye contact, both men checking for weakness.  Sam broke first; he rested his hands on the roof of the Impala and looked at his knuckles.  He worried his lip with his teeth before starting back round the car to stand in front of the blue-eyed man.  
  
He looked down the street and made some quick calculations.  He could still make his target; the window of opportunity hadn’t yet closed.  He looked back at Sam and smiled. “Listen, I’m sorry to have to dash but I have a business appointment, and I’m cutting things a little fine.”  
  
Sam’s eyebrows rose a little. What the hell was a pharmaceutical salesman doing in this part of Chicago late at night?  Then he really looked at the man in front of him; his cap was pulled fairly low obscuring part of his face from casual inspection.  Sam also had noticed the man scratching at his beard a couple of times. So it wasn’t something he was used to, and he didn’t seem comfortable in the clothes he wore.  
  
 There was the way he handled himself. He’d helped Dean deal with four demons, and there didn’t seem to be a mark on him. Not to mention he’d been able to peg Dean as having had some sort of military training, and his comment about Afghanistan.  Whoever this guy was, he was no salesman. In fact he reminded him a little of Dean.  The constant awareness of his surroundings, how he’d sized him up when he’d gotten out of the car.   
  
 The man was a mystery that would entertain him while Dean recovered from his beating.  He might even engage in a little research into Universal exports, and keep an eye on the news for a couple of days. Something told Sam this man being here was no accident. Perhaps Dean wasn’t the only one hunting tonight.  
  
Now it was time to leave, hightail it out of Chicago before more demons came looking for them. It was time to head for ‘home.’ Sam knew Dean would be looking forward to his precious Memory Foam mattress. Sam held out his hand. “Thank you for your help. Not many people would’ve stopped. By the way I didn’t catch your name, Mr... ?”  
  
He took Sam’s hand and shook it, smiling when he answered, thinking about his next stop. “I was happy to have done my good deed for the day, and the name’s Bond... James Bond.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
